


Fuse

by thearchangelofloki



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, How Mest got his scar, Mest has a shitty father, and a lovely mother, and i torture them all, their not like the main things going on but i'm tagging them just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 10:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7264180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thearchangelofloki/pseuds/thearchangelofloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even from a young age, Mest knew he loved his mother the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuse

Mest loved his mother. Ever since he could remember, he had always loved her the most. Loved her more than playing outside, more than the small dead end village they lived in, more than anything.

They’d always end up playing together when his father was away, which was often, the pair of them could often be seen in the garden out the front of their house with her when the sun would rest high in the sky, and the clouds only giving them minimal protection from the heat. They’d play pretend: she’d be the demon he’d have to slay, or he’d be the prince that had run away from his kingdom and she’d be the one that would have to come find him again. No matter what they did, it usually ended up with the pair of them lying on the grass, exhausted, breathing heavy and watching the clouds.

The first time he used magic was the first time he saw her cry.

It was barely anything to the naked eye - just a small jump that landed him just a step or two away from where he was originally - and if no one was looking directly at him then no one would have been any the wiser about his gift.

But his mother was looking, and when she saw Mest found himself wrapped in her arms as she hurriedly took him inside. Her could feel the wetness of her tears in his hair, and when he looked up he was greeted with the sight of her red rimmed eyes as she tried to hold back a sob, fingers running over his cheeks.

He didn’t understand.

It was a while before his mother was calm enough to speak, both of them somehow squished together in his tiny bed, her fingers gently running themselves through his hair, that she’d asked him – no, _pleaded_ with him – to not use it again. He didn’t understand at first, not really, because how could being able to just from place to place be a bad thing? It was awesome! With it, he’d be able to get home from almost anywhere really fast! He explained this to his mother, but his only response was her hugging tight, and he could feel her shake her head as she began to speak.

He went pale.

He always knew that his mother didn’t come from the village, that she came from a city filled with people. In that city, magic was a commonplace thing. It was part of everyday life, something that was not necessarily revered or feared, it simply was there, an ever present thing, like the buildings or the market place.

When she’d married his father, she’d found that it was not the same case here.

In this tiny village, where normalcy was something to be praised, where most people had never left, where anything that threatened their everyday way of life was something to be swept away, never to be seen again, magic was frowned upon.

No, more than that. Magic was _hated_.

When she’d married his father and moved here, his mother had turned around her thoughts of not minding if her child would be able to use magic, to desperately hoping that they couldn’t. That he couldn’t.

It seemed that the gods had a warped sense of humour.

It was a lot to take in, and although he wanted to argue, wanted to scream and shout, to tell his mother that it didn’t matter, that they could just run away, go back to the city that she came from and leave this small village behind, he knew he couldn’t. They couldn’t leave, because there would always be one relentless thing that would track them down.

His father.

His mother had once told him that when she’d married him, before he was born, that his father was a different person. He’d smile at her and tell her that he loved her every night. Gave her flowers when he left for work and kiss her cheek when he returned. Before he started drinking heavily, she’d said, he was a lovely man.

Mest struggled to believe her though.

He’d never seen that side to his father, not once.

His earliest memory of his father was not a pleasant one. He was barely four years old, and he recalls standing behind the door in his room, watching his parents through the crack he’d made as he opened it just enough so he could see as he’d shook, hands over his mouth to try and quieten his heavy breathing. They were yelling. No, that wasn’t right. His father was yelling, gesturing wildly with a half full bottle in his hand while his mother pleaded with him to stop, to put the drink away. One moment the house was filled with noise, filled with yelling and shouting and _anger_ , then next there was a sharp _crack,_ then silence.

Mest couldn’t stop a whimper from coming out. It seemed so loud in that quiet space, and for a small, terrified moment, he was afraid he’d be caught.

His mother was on the ground, holding her nose in her hand, and if he looked, Mest thought he could see blood trickling down from between her fingers. His father was standing over her, breathing mimicking Mest’s own, heavy and irregular, bottle still gripped in the hand he hadn’t used to hit her. His father walked away then, and Mest was too scared to open the door more to try and figure out where he went, instead his eyes remained glued to his mother and how, the moment his father seemed to be out of her line of sight, she sagged, and _sobbed_.

He decided then that he didn’t like his father.

Mest was glad his father went on jobs that took him out of the village for long periods of time, because although he’d never seen another incident like that happen while his father was home, he could still feel the tension, hear the shouting, and he knew it was only a matter of time before it happened again.

He thought of what would happen if his father ever found out she’d been hiding something this big from him, of what would happen to her. His heart clenched at the thought, and he knew that it would only happen if he used magic and someone else, _anyone_ else saw, which would happen if he continued to use it. So when she’d asked him not to use his magic again, to not even mention the word around anyone but her, even though he hated the idea of hiding away a part of who he was, hated the idea that something about him was shameful, he nodded and told her he would. He promised her that he’d never use it again, no matter the circumstance. The way her arms tightened around his body and how she’d kept whispering ‘thank you’ over and over and _over_ again told him that he’d made the right choice.

He would do this for his mother.

He’d do anything for her.

 

* * *

 

 

Life went on after that fateful afternoon. He and his mother still spent most of their days when his father wasn’t home playing outside, the house still held a palpable tension whenever his father was there with them. The sun rose, the sun set. His father would leave for work, and Mest did his best to never use his magic again.

For years, everything remained as it should.

Until one day, quite suddenly, it didn’t.

He never really understood the weight of his promise when he’d made it to his mother, never really understood how difficult to keep it would be as time went on. It was like he was neglecting a limb, only worse. His magic was a constant presence, always there, sparking just underneath his skin, desperate to break free and be allowed into the world.

It was like an itch he could never scratch, and with every day that passed, the itch only grew worse, until it was like his skin was on fire, like he was being pulled apart at the seams from the power inside of him that desperately wanted to escape, to be allowed into the open air where it could be free.

Looking back, Mest supposed he couldn’t really be surprised about how things turned out. He was like lit fuse, slowly burning towards its payload, every day sending him a little closer to the edge, a little closer to going off, a little closer to exploding.

He guessed he really shouldn’t have been surprised that his father was the final spark he needed to lose control.

His father was home, of course, sitting at the dining table, bottles – most of them empty, some still holding liquor in them – covering the surface. Mest could feel his nose wrinkle at the rancid smell of alcohol that seemed to be blanketing the room, so thick it seemed that he couldn’t move from the kitchen where he stood, could barely breathe. When his mother came in from one of the bedrooms, the sound of his father’s chair scrapping against the floor made him flinch, his father drunkenly grabbing of the half full bottles from the table as he stalked over to her, screaming at her while she flinched back, desperate to get away but too afraid to run.

All of a sudden he was four years old again, looking through the crack that he’d made as he watched on in fear.

_No._

He was rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to _think_. It was like his blood was being replaced with stone by his own beating heart, the noise of it so loud in his ear he wondered how it was that neither of his parents seemed to acknowledge it, how he could even hear his father screaming at all. He could see it happen as if it was in slow motion, the way his father’s free hand raised itself above his head, preparing to strike. The way his mother seemed to steel herself, accepting what was going to happen but making no move to defend herself or to move away.

 _It was happening again_.

He didn’t mean to do it, not really.

He just wanted to get away, get his mother away from the man that would hurt her.

One minute he was standing in the entrance of the kitchen, watching his father swing his hand towards his mother, watching her do nothing but close her eyes, the next his father’s wrist was clenched tight in his hand, eyes locked on Mest’s own with an almost unreadable expression.

There was silence in the room.

It didn’t take a genius for someone to figure out that Mest moving over such a large area in less than a second wasn’t natural, wasn’t _normal_ , and even while inebriated his father wasn’t stupid. Mest could see the way his father’s eyes narrowed, see the way they flickered behind him, to his mother, before flicking back to him. Wondered what he was asking. Although he didn’t end up wondering for very long.

His father moved fast for a drunk man. One moment they were staring at each other, his father’s wrist still in his hand. Mest was slowly trying to push his mother away from the inevitable fallout that was going to happen, the tension in the room so thick he had to question how none of them had choked from the sheer pressure of it. He wasn’t quite sure how long all of them stood there in silence, barely moving. It was probably only a few seconds at most but it felt like it dragged on for a lifetime. For one long, excruciating moment, this was how they stayed.

Then his father moved, and Mest knew nothing but pain.

He instinctively released his father’s wrist, both hands quickly pressing themselves to the side of his face, feeling the blood trickle between his fingers and glass shards cut into his hands. The left side of face was throbbing, felt like it was on fire and being torn apart, and it wasn’t until he’d stumbled away from his father with his mother’s help that he realised what had happened, saw the blurry outline of the broken bottle clutched in his father’s hand, saw the blood dripping down it. He could hear his parents screaming, feel himself being pushed out of the way by one of them. He didn’t know who it was, only knew that it was too loud, so loud that he couldn’t think, and that the itch was back with a vengeance, clawing at his skin with renewed vigour at it desperately tried to work itself free.

His hands tightened on the left side of his face.

It _hurt_.

He didn’t understand what was happening. He could feel himself shaking, and whether it was from the strain of holding himself back or simply from the reality of the situation he didn’t know. He could only watch as his father raised his fists high before bringing them down on his mother.

 _I don’t want them to be like this_.

Again.

 _I don’t want her to remember this_.

And again.

 _I don’t want him to hurt her again_.

And again.

He could hear his mother crying, make out her still blurry outline on the floor, still giving token resistance against his father, but even he could see that her movements were slowing, and that his father showed no signs of stopping.

 _She’s going to die if he doesn’t stop_.

The thought hit him suddenly, and he could feel himself psychically recoil from it as if it were an actual blow. He wanted to scream at them to stop, wanted to run to them, to pull his mother away, to stop his father from raining down the blows, but he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot, unable to move. He could feel the magic underneath his skin vie for freedom, and as the seconds went by he felt his resolve to keep it locked away crumble.

He saw his mother slump.

He might have screamed then, but he didn’t really know if he did. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the blood rushing in his ears.

The fuse that he had been fighting for so long, the one he had desperately hoped would never go off, reached it payload.

There was a bright white light that seemed to encompass everything, invade everything and for a long moment that was all that Mest could see.

Then everything went black.

When he woke, he knew something had changed. He didn’t know what it was exactly that had happened, only that whatever it was had caused all three of them to be knocked out. He didn’t know how long the they were unconscious for, only that the blood on the side of his face was now sticky instead of flowing freely. He winced as he moved his hand to touch it, could still feel the tiny shards of glass that were embedded in the wound.

It appeared that he wasn’t the only one who was now just coming round, as he could see that his parents slowly lifting themselves from the ground as well, carefully checking themselves over as sore muscles protested. Mest could feel a smile break out on his face at the sight of his mother, from what he could see, there was bruising of her face and arms but she was moving fine. She’d be moving around stiffly for a couple of weeks but that was fine, because she was alive and would continue to be so.

He must have made some noise because soon enough his mother was looking over at him, meeting his eyes, he was almost tempted to go over to her and hug her before his veins filled with ice and the smile slowly slide from his face.

There was no recognition in her eyes, no love, no worry, not even a questioning or horrified look at what he’d just done.

There was… _nothing_.

He looked to his father, desperate, and for once he was hoping that angry look that usually appeared in his father’s eyes when he was drunk and saw him was there, only to find that there was nothing in his father’s eyes either.

He wanted to be sick.

He stumbled to his feet, gripping the door that lead outside the house as he stood, looking between the pair of them for any sort of recognition, only to find none. He watched his mother cock her head to the side, as if in a trance, almost mystified by his presence in their house. He watched his father reach over and place a hand over her arm.

She didn’t flinch away like she usually did, and his heart plummeted through his chest.

Had he done this?

Had he made them forget their bad memories with each other? Had he taken them back to a time when they were happy with one another?

It was everything he ever wanted, once upon a time. For them to go back to a time when his father didn’t drink, when they were happy together and in love. A time where his father would smile and his mother wouldn’t have to be afraid of the man she had married anymore.

A time before him.

He could feel the bile rise in the back of his throat.

…Had he erased himself from their minds?

He blindly grabbed the door knob, pushing it open with much more force than needed. He could feel the wind rushing through the house, sending a chill down to his bones, but that wasn’t the thing that was making him feel so cold.

He looked to his mother again, and he could feel his bottom lip trembling and tears prickle in the corner of his eyes as he saw the fear and confusion that was now in her gaze.

He couldn’t stay, couldn’t bear to see her look like that for a moment longer.

He did the only thing he thought he could do, as his parents – one whom he loved with all his heart, the other whom he hated – stared at him as if they didn’t know him. As if he was a stranger. As if he was nothing more than a young teenager who’d stumbled into their house.

 

 

 

He ran.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on tumblr requested a fic about how Mest got the scar on his face, this is my lil slice of HC. Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
